


let's misbehave

by lanfan



Category: Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Gangsters, Multi, Rule 63, Yuri, only sinbad and ja'far changed gender
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-10-04
Packaged: 2018-01-09 12:10:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1145836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanfan/pseuds/lanfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>“Sinbad, this isn’t a good idea.”</p>
  <p>“Most of my ideas aren’t,” she replies easily, tilting her head back to look at the ceiling. “But I didn’t get to where I am by having dumb ideas.”</p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	1. part one

**Author's Note:**

> 1920s au because why the hell not. will focus primarily on sinbad and ja'far but also on sharrkan and yamu.
> 
> inspiration came from a fanart xaylu did of female ja'far wearing a flapper dress so this is dedicated to you, lovely lady! 
> 
> title comes from a song I listened to a lot while writing from the time period: Let's Misbehave by Cole Porter

Ja'far's fingers twitch for a cigarette.

“Order of scotch,” Sharrkan calls from the bar, his light hair easy to spot from her position on the plush couch. He is hazy under the thick plume of smoke rising from half-lit cigarettes clutched in the hands of the men across from her. She keeps her hands on her bare knees, prim.  
  
“I’ll sure Sinbad would be happy to talk to you,” she says, lifting a hand once Sharrkan crosses the room in swift strides, dropping the drink into her outstretched hand without hesitation. She doesn’t remove her gaze, crossing her legs at the ankles. One of them lets his gaze wander and her eyes narrow.  
  
“But I’m afraid she’s busy,” Ja’far finishes, taking a careful sip. The taste is bitter on her lips but she resists, knowing she’ll need it. She isn’t much of a drinker for someone who helps run a speakeasy; she leaves the toxic behavior to Sinbad and the rest. Instead she keeps the books, runs the finances, nurses their hangovers with annoyed sighs and coddling. “You’ll have to make an appointment.”  
  
“Alright doll,” the man snorts, his southern accent grating on her ears. He downs the rest of his drink before grabbing the nearest waitress to refill it. It happens to the hem of Pisti’s dress pressing against his fingertips; he grins and tugs slightly. Ja’far watches Spartos get up from his place at the bar abruptly, eyes narrow.  
  
“Scotch on rocks,” Business Suit winks and Pisti grins in a way that is half-flirty and fully wild.  
  
“Only if you let go,” she says sweetly, blonde hair bobbing in motion with her head tilting to the side. Ja’far recognizes the cute look; she’s had to bat it away dozens of times when Pisti wanted something. She was a persuasive girl; an ex-heiress with a bodyguard to boot ( _ex_ -bodyguard, but no one has the heart to remind him).  
  
“Masrur will escort you boys out. I’m afraid our evening is coming to a close,” Ja’far stands, abandoning her drink at the table. They look startled but comply when Masrur enters the space, overwhelming in size and dead-eyed stare. The last thing Sindria needs is more men in the building; soaking up the woman like cracked sponges. Especially the kinds who think Sinbad just needs a little _taming._  
  
Ja’far snorts; as if that’d ever work.  
  
Sinbad appears on the dance floor like a beacon, towing an obviously frazzled Kougyoku Ren by the hand and Judal by the waist. Ja’far scowls, reaching into her pocket for her pipe and lighting it with practiced ease.  
  
This was the third time the Ren girl has visited this week, tugging along her family pet. She looks positively dolled; colored plumes adorning her long red hair, curled up tightly to mimic a bob. Sneaking out of the Ren house was probably an incredible feat; considering her brother Kouen’s pro-abolitionist mindset. It was a powerful family; home to politicans, lawyers, and police officiers who powered nearly the entire city. If it wasn’t for Drakon’s position as chief of police for the Chicago PD, they’d be in some tricky shit.  
  
However, the Rens still considred it their personal mission to close down the very place that Sinbad had constructed with her own hands.  
  
But the youngest daughter was harmless. Barely out of school without any future plans, she’d embraced the flapper movement after bumping into Sinbad on the street. Ja’far hadn’t been surprised when hearing the story after hours; Sinbad was magnetic that way. Plucking orphans from the streets despite being one herself.  
  
Judal was crazier and much more annoying. Not related to the Ren family by blood, they’d taken him in as a stray because his family had been some long-standing friend of their mother; it was all very under the table and shady enough that Ja’far couldn’t dig any deeper. He’d come to the club as an attachment to Kougyoku, scowling and grumbling all the way. That is, until he’d decided his claws would do good sinking into Sinbad’s wide hips, his small mouth mewling and fawning like a cat in heat. It raised Ja’far’s hackles; she’d considered killing him months ago.  
  
However, Sinbad had objected. “It’s business,” she’d said, resting her hands on Ja’far’s shoulders in a way that should’ve been comforting. “I want the Rens off _our_ backs and he wants me on _my_ back.”  
  
“That’s not funny,” Ja’far grumbled, crossing her arms over her chest. Sinbad had simply grinned, draping her long arms across Ja’far’s chest, groping for her breasts. Ja’far growled, annoyed, batting her away. That had effectively closed the conversation for the night.  
  
But Ja’far still didn’t feel at ease watching Sinbad smile patiently at the younger boy’s unstable pupils, dilated and eager. Ja’far watches her knock knees, all long legs and slick dark hair passing her shoulders. Despite not having the usual look of a flapper, Sinbad commanded attention in a way Ja’far, despite having all the requirements for a drop-dead sheba, could ever manage (not that she wanted to anyway).  
  
“You look pensive,” a voice interrupts her thoughts and she glances up to find Spartos by her side, face passive. She is surprised; he doesn’t usually interact with them while he’s working, Pisti enough of an effort that he can’t keep up conversation and watch her all at once. However, a quick scan of the crowd shows that Pisti has joined Sinbad on the floor, hips gyrating to the sweet lull of Yamu’s voice on stage. If Spartos trusts anyone with Pisti, it was Sinbad. “Penny for your thoughts?”  
  
“I don’t like having them around,” she admits quietly, inhaling the tobacco and suppressing the urge to cough. The smoke curls in ringlets into the musky air. “Puts me on edge.”  
  
“You’re always on edge,” he points out, taking a slow sip of his gin. “Judal won’t try anything; he’s a dumb kid but he knows better. After all, Sinbad has you watching her back,” he smiles, gently, before placing a hand on Ja’far’s back. She lets him and nods, clenched fingers wrinkling her soft white gloves.  
  
“She has all of us,” Ja’far corrects quietly and watches her move with the kind of ease that Ja’far remembers seeing in her right swing, beating on the men who’d tried to take her, once when they were young. Being a girl on the streets wasn’t easy; it was too easy to get lost on the life of the underground, a world of homemade liquor and runaway girls seeking adventure. Ja’far hadn’t been looking for adventure; she’d just been looking to survive. Sinbad herself hadn’t expected to be thrown into the streets by the death of her mother; leaving her with little more than a few bills in her pocket and an antique dagger that her father had used during the war.  
  
They’d met under the harsh light of a dressing room; Sinbad had been little more than a showgirl at Friar’s Inn then, making meager wages and living in one of the rooms upstairs. Ja’far had broken in, cold and shivering in the winter snow, and had launched herself, feral, at the eighteen-year old beauty. Instead of running, as Ja’far had expected, Sinbad slammed her down onto the floor and stared, for a long stretch of minutes, until letting her stand and offering her a coat.

Since then, Ja’far hadn’t left Sinbad’s side.  
  
Since then, Sinbad had picked off forgotten kids like stray cats, tucking them into her sides as she quit dancing and opened her own speakeasy, sandwiched in an alleyway next to a brothel and a café.  
  
“We all have each other,” Spartos says after what felt like hours of watching the patrons gather into large clusters, hooting and hollering as Sinbad lifts Pisti onto one of the tables. Sharrkan has abandoned his place behind the bar to pluck Yamu from the stage, both of them blushing heavily, into a smooth dance from the record player. Masrur and Drakon play craps with strangers on the other side of the room, staring intently at their hands and sneaking cards under the table. “And she brought us together.”  
  
Ja’far smiles warily. “Yeah, she’s good at that.”

***  
It always takes long for Yamuhaira to walk home; hands tucked into her coat pockets. She glances around, paranoid, before crossing the street across the Sindria. She lets out a puff of air, watching the haze rise up. Her nose wrinkles; she reeks of alcohol.  
  
She considers heading to Sinbad’s apartment to clean up but keeps walking when a gaggle of men exit from Sindria, likely being kicked out by an irritated Ja’far. They pass her, wolf-whistling, clearly recognizing her legs from her place up on stage. Men didn’t stare at her face when she was singing anyway.  
  
“You’re the bee’s knees,” one of them calls out, grinning. “Wanna take a spin our way?”  
  
She walks faster, frowning. “No thanks,” she shouts, wrapping her coat tighter. They soon get distracted by Pisti exiting the building, no surprise. The shorter girl has always been more popular with the patrons; Yamu spent too much time talking about her degree and not enough twisting her finger into the ends of her hair. She wasn’t flirting material; she clammed up without a few good drinks in her and it didn’t take much to make her rush to the bathroom after a round or two of gin.  
  
She wasn’t fun. But she could sing.  
  
Finding Sinbad had been an accident; she’d been singing at her college café when Sinbad had rushed in to order an espresso. She was decked out in long pearls, diamond earrings, a fur trimmed coat settled perfectly against her long flowing hair. She’d slammed the money down on the table and taken a grateful sip of coffee, letting out a soft sigh of gratitude. The boy blushed before disappearing into the storage room. Yamu didn’t let her voice waver but kept her eyes on the woman, even after a shorter one rushed into the place after her. She strained to hear the conversation.  
  
“If you’re going to come pick me up,” the younger girl snarled, removing the cap from her head. “You might as well wait for me.” The girl was beautiful in the strangest way; hair so fine it was almost white piled in messy waves around her face, covered in light freckles and smooth skin. Her eyes were narrow but gentle; ringed with gray. She was slight, a stark contrast to the woman in front of her. Thinking back, Yamu could only describe Sinbad as _loud_ : her eyes wide and violet, her grin infectious, her body was an hourglass of large hips and big breasts.  
  
“I needed coffee,” she pouted, taking another long drink. Before the shorter girl could snarl a protest, Sinbad lifted her hand and turned to stare directly in Yamu’s direction. She faltered on the final note of her song, bristling at the eye contact, flustered for no reason.  
  
“I want her,” Sinbad said suddenly, pointing in her direction as if she wasn’t looking.  
  
“I’m right here,” Ja’far snapped which sent Sinbad into a fit of laughter.  
  
“I mean, I want her to sing at Sindria,” Sinbad said before turning to Yamu, commanding her full attention. “You want to get out of this joint? Do some real music?”  
  
Yamu remembers sputtering, clutching her pearls nervously. The patrons returned to their coffee as if she hadn’t even been singing in the first place, much too preoccupied to appreciate her voice.“Ah…I go here.”  
  
“So does Ja’far,” she said, waving her hand. “I’m Sinbad; it’ll be a pleasure working with you.”  
  
And Yamu can’t deny it had been. It’d been a better half of two years singing the night shift at the Sindria; earning way more cash than she actually needs. The thought sends a guilty knot down into her stomach as she crosses into Uptown Chicago. She reaches up to unpin her curls, letting them tumble down her back, sitting just above the small of her back.  
  
She watches the houses get bigger, the gates get taller, each step feeling like a death march until finally arriving to the largest of them all; hulking and grand, with iron-wrought gates dipped in fine gold. Disappearing each night was proving more difficult as her father grew more suspicious; she usually got home right before the sun rose, meaning she’d sleep in well-past noon. She’d been able to hide it better, in the beginning. Sneaking out had been exhilarating; leading a double-life against the wishes of her family a welcome rebellion against the high-society teas she was forced to attend and the men she was forced to court. But the longer she wanted to stay with her people, her friends, the more was demanded of her at home. She had no mother, she was an only child, the sole heir to the Magnoshadt Industry Empire her father had constructed to leave in her hands (or rather, in the hands of the man she’d marry.)

She was going to have to leave them, eventually. All of them.

“Holy _shit_ ,” a voice sounds behind her and she shrieks, lifting her purse up as a weapon. But when she turns around, all she sees is Sharrkan, jaw dropped and wide-eyed. Her stomach sinks past her knees.

“Did you _follow_ me?”

“I was making sure you got home safely,” Sharrkan is tense, avoiding her eyes and staring past her. She winces at the quiet tone of his voice; so unlike the usual friendly anger she’d gotten used to. “But I can see that you’re not exactly in the seediest neighborhood.”  
  
It had been easier to lie. After all, they would’ve treated her differently if they had known she was rich; one of those false flappers that Ja’far always complained about, with their long hair and coiffed dreams before returning home to their manicured lawns and ritzy houses.

“I—“  
  
“Lied? I noticed,” Sharrkan says and she hates the sound of it; the weight of the words on his tongue. “I guess this is why you didn’t want to go to the rink last week?”

“ _No—.”_  
  
“I get it,” he says, speaking over her as the anger starts to bubble. “I’m poor and I’m _brown_ and you had somewhere better to go.”

“Hey you haven’t even let me explain myself,” Yamu says, stomping her foot. She feels like a child being interrogated by her father, irrational and irritated. “That’s not why I said no.”  
  
“So you’re gonna tell me it had nothing to do with this swanky house?”  
  
She hesitates, only for a moment, but that’s more than enough for him. “Sharrkan! Wait—“  
  
“I’m sick of waiting,” he snarls, turning back around. “I’m sick of having to figure out whether or not you’re _lying_ to me! You think you’re so much smarter but you’re just a plain jane looking for a thrill before you settle into your posh house with your white husband and your perfect life, talking about the glory days where you deigned to sit around with ragtags.”  
  
Yamu’s sure she’s crying; she thinks Sharrkan is too angry to care.  
  
“Fine,” she shrieks, slamming her purse into his chest. He stumbles back in the force of the collision; lifting his hands off to ward off any more attack. “Go back to the gutter, see if I care!”  
  
“At least the gutter wants me around,” he snaps, turning his back towards her. “We don’t need you anyway.”

And that’s what sends her running into her own house, alarms be damned. Sharrkan walks with heavy feet, cursing to himself and kicking up snow until the path in front of him is smooth concrete.

***  
  
Sinbad tip-toes into the house slowly, trying to shut the door behind her without making a sound. It echos a loud click and she curses, putting her shoes to the side. The sun is already rising; barely visible through the thick curtains Ja’far had purchased when they’d first moved into the penthouse. She spies the bathroom light on and walks towards it curiously, peeking in to find Ja’far in the bathtub, steam rising from the water.  
  
She pushes the door open, waggling her eyebrows. “Well don’t you look ravishing,” Sinbad says, ignoring Ja’far’s angry growl at being interrupted. She covers her chest with her arms, frowning.

“Get out.”  
  
“I thought you were waiting up for me.” Ja’far turns her head but Sinbad doesn’t miss the deep blush that creeps up the back of her neck, the telltale sign that Ja’far has indeed waited up for her, just as she’d done when they were teens.  
  
Sinbad sets to work taking off her dress, shimmying out of her stockings.  Her pearls made a heavy noise as they were dropped onto the floor; making Ja’far wince.  
  
“Both of us don’t fit in here,” Ja’far sighs, squirming to accommodate anyway. Sinbad easily settles in behind her, pressing the smaller girl’s scarred back against her own breasts. Instantly, Ja’far feels warm and uncomfortable.  
  
“Sinbad,” she says quietly, finding her hands under the water. They wander down the long scars that wind down her legs, puckering the skin around it. Ja’far flinches, but not from pain. “This isn’t a good idea.”  
  
“Most of my ideas aren’t,” she replies easily, tilting her head back to look at the ceiling. “But I didn’t get to where I am by having dumb ideas.”  
  
They fall silent, Sinbad content with mouthing the skin of Ja’far’s shoulder, enjoying the little sounds that spill out from her mouth at the ministrations.  
  
“Where were you?”  
  
“Not at Judal’s place,” she answers immediately, rolling her eyes. “For a hitman, you’re a little transparent.”  
  
“Ex-hitman.” Sinbad snorted, the sound vibrating against Ja’far’s skin.  
  
“But really, I was at Sharrkan’s place,” she says, the humor gone from her voice. “He and Yamu got into…a nasty fight.”  
  
“You mean like always?”  
  
“No, different.” Ja’far turns around, immediately concerned. “I don’t think we’re going to see Yamu around for a while. Did you know she’s the Magnoshadt heiress?”  
  
“Of course I did,” Ja’far sniffs, raising an eyebrow in the way that Sinbad has always envied. “You think anything happens at Sindria without me knowing about it?”  
  
“I figured it out a couple of months ago but didn’t want to push,” Sinbad sighed. “Not that it would’ve mattered; I chose her for the voice, not because she was an orphan or anything.”  
  
“A shock,” she retaliates dryly and Sinbad bits down on the nape of her neck. They sit in silence, letting the water turn lukewarm, enjoying the feeling of wet skin pressed in all the right places. Ja’far lights herself a pipe and exhales slowly, head tilted upward, and it’s about the sexiest thing Sinbad has ever seen. She doesn’t smoke herself, often, but can’t resist plucking the cigarette from her fingers and taking a drag herself, pressing her lips quickly against the space where Ja’far’s had occupied. She blows to the side instead of up; letting the smell of smoke waft near them.  
  
“Want you,” Sinbad says quietly, finally. Ja’far sighs, pushing away and standing up. She grabs her robe and wraps it around herself. “And I don’t think it’s wrong of me to say it.”  
  
“It’s not,” Ja’far insists, tightening her grip on the edges of the smooth silk, damp with water. “I just..”  
  
“I don’t care,” Sinbad warns, taking a long drag before snubbing the cigarette into the ashtray Ja’far had placed on the soap holder. “About whatever people are going to think. You shouldn’t either.”  
  
“We don’t just have each other to think about,” Ja’far glances outside the window as if she could leave; as if she didn’t live down the hall in the room she insisted having to herself.  
  
“As if the others will care!”  
  
“They won’t,” she says gruffly, “but people will, if they find out. We could be ruined; there’s no space in the world for people for us.”  
  
“Then I’ll make space,” Sinbad snaps, stepping out of the bath herself, not bothering to cover up with a towel. The breeze coming from the crack in the window sends a slow chill down her spine. “But I’m not going to go around pretending I don’t want you.”  
  
“ _Try_.”  
  
Sinbad lets out a noise of frustration, glaring around for something to throw and finding nothing. They stand across from each other, Ja’far gripping the sink, Sinbad groping thin air until she finally steps forward, letting her hands run down the fabric covering Ja’far’s shoulders.  
  
“I’m through trying,” she whispers, dropping her head onto the smaller girl’s shoulders. Ja’far feels frail under her fingertips but she proceeds slowly, knowing that underneath her skin laid something feral. “You think if anyone gave a damn about me following conventions that Sindria would be popular in the first place?  
  
Ja’far hesitates and Sinbad takes the opportunity to slide her robe off, mouth wandering down her collarbone and brushing across the peak of her breast. “I’m worried,” she admits and she feels Sinbad smile against her skin.  
  
“It’s your job to worry. But not about this, okay? Not about us.”  
  
“You’re a sap,” Ja’far grumbles but her voice cracks when Sinbad’s hand slides between her legs, gently urging her out of the away from the sink and onto the counter. Sinbad brings her hand to her cheeks, flaming hot under her touch, guiding her mouth to hers. They kiss slowly, like they have all the time in the world, Ja’far’s teeth catching on her lower lip in that way she knows drives Sinbad insane.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Sinbad says, lips brushing her cheek. Ja’far says nothing but nods, almost imperceptibly, because they both know she hadn’t only been at Sharrkan’s that night.  
  
“You don’t need to apologize,” Ja’far shrugs, modesty lost as her legs spread to make room for Sinbad between her. “You know I don’t mind, as long as it’s not _him_.”  
  
“I need to keep the Rens away from us,” Sinbad says, lips puckered in a frown. Ja’far doesn’t move to comfort, staying still in front of her. She knows Sinbad prefers it that way. “Kougyoku is an easy target. Does that make me a bad person?”  
  
Ja’far peppers kisses down Sinbad’s tan skin, her sharp collarbones, right over her heart. “Yes. It does. But this is what you chose; you have no option but to keep moving forward,” she says, lifting her hands to enjoy the weight of Sinbad’s breasts under her fingertips. She exhales, quiet, so unlike herself, only for a moment.  
  
Then she tugs Ja’far closer by the hair and it is so familiar, the younger girl feels an ache deep in her stomach. “You’re right.”  
  
“I’ll follow you to the end.”  
  
***  
  
Sharrkan calls in sick the next day; holding his nose to sound nasally while on the phone with Ja’far. She seems unimpressed, clucking her tongue in annoyance, but she grants him the free pass anyway.  
  
He’s sure it’s because Sinbad told her, which makes him irrationally annoyed.  
  
Sharrkan doesn’t need anyone’s pity; why does he seem to be the only one angry at this betrayal? Sinbad had acted like she’d known all along; simply shrugging and saying to give Yamu some time to sort things out. Pisti had done little more than grin, make a short remark about how she’d known they had more in common than she thought, and then disappeared behind the bar. Spartos had nodded, Masrur wasn’t even paying attention, Ja’far just continued polishing glasses like she’d known the whole time as well.  
He spends the rest of the morning lying in bed, listening to static and faint music on his small radio. His apartment is humble; big enough that for one person it seemed downright spacious. The place had been a present from Sinbad; outrageous and expensive considering the location, but he hadn’t figured out a way to say no to the offer, to his irritation. After all, it wasn’t like he’d had anywhere else to live after his brother booted him from his old home.  
  
However, his pride made him work off every penny that went towards the rent he didn’t have to pay, made him reject Ja’far’s attempts at hiring him a maid, ignore Pisti’s piles of cash to spend on nights at dimly light casinos, all in favor of pinching pennies and complaining about it. That was better than receiving handouts.  
  
He is going to make something of himself; just like Sinbad had.  
  
Sharrkan can hear someone knocking on his door from his position on the couch, swift knuckles pounding on the wood, louder for each second he hesitates in answering. What if it was Yamu?  
  
 _As if_.  
  
And yet he hurries to the door anyway, straightening his shirt and leaning over to stop the needle that was playing his Louis Armstrong record.  
  
“I’m taking a sick— _oh_. It’s you.”  
  
“That’s no way to treat family,” the boy in front of him says; grinning widely. He was slim and short; clearly younger and more refined in features than Sharrkan. But they had the same skin, same strange shade of hair, same insufferable smile.  
  
“Sphintus, I don’t have time for you today.”  
  
“ _Ouch!_ Alright, Mrs.Grundy, what’s got your panties in a knot?” It’s not that Sharrkan didn’t like his cousin, really. It was more that he saw way too much of himself in the younger boy, which was irritating to experience.  
  
“Nothing; shouldn’t you be bumping uglies with your boyfriend or something? Taking boring classes?”  
  
Sphintus is unfazed, dropping onto the plush couch and raising an eyebrow. “So I’ll go ahead and guess things aren’t going great for you on the ladies’ front. Can’t say I’m surprised; you’ve always been an airhead. Titus is fine, thanks for asking.”  
  
“I didn’t,” Sharrkan deadpans but goes into the kitchen to make them coffee anyway. He tips a bit of whiskey into his from his flask, tucked deep into the underbelly of his sink. “And my love life is better than ever! Little brat.”  
  
“I come to invite you over for dinner and this is what I get! Trust me, it wasn’t my idea. Titus wants to meet you, unfortunately. I told him it’d be much more fun keeping conversation with a palm tree.”  
  
“I’ll strangle you,” Sharrkan warns, shoving the mug into his hands. Sphintus grins cheerily before continuing.  
  
“I figured we’d have dinner together? Bring Yamuraiha if you want…just none of the others, please. They’re great and all but I don’t want to scare him.”  
  
Sharrkan could understand that. Sphintus had met the Sindria’s motley staff on a good import night; Pisti swinging from the chandeliers while Sinbad cheered her on from her place on the piano, skirts swinging and flashing half the bar. Ja’far had seemed rational enough until Sinbad started yelling about attempting the acrobatics herself. Then she’d summoned the scariest look Sharrkan had ever seen, unique only to the petite woman’s face, and hauled Sinbad down by the ear.  
  
“That’s not happening,” Sharrkan grumbles, taking a long sip. “Yamu isn’t around anymore.”  
  
Sphintus stays silent for a moment, staring into Sharrkan’s eyes. Immediately, he glances at the window and he knows he’s caught.  
  
“So you guys fought. What’d you do?”  
  
“What’d _I_ do?”  
  
“Of course,” Sphintus set his mug down on the table, ignoring the coasters. “You wouldn’t look so ab-so-lute-ly guilty if it wasn’t your fault.”  
  
And Sharrkan doesn’t know why (he’ll blame the alcohol later) but he tells Sphintus everything. He explains everything deliberately, avoiding eye contact by stacking the coasters in a neat pile before they topple over.  
  
“You’re the wrong one,” Sphintus says, immediately. Sharrkan gapes like a fish, opening his mouth to say something and then closing it over again. “Hear me out. Who cares if she kept it a secret? You’re on the level now! She was scared; she thought you all would reject her if you found out she was rich. And what’d you do? Exactly that!”  
  
Sharrkan immediately rises, pointing a finger in his direction. “No! I’m not going to be the one left holding the bag just because you happen to be necking some prissy rich kid.”  
  
“I’m in the best position to understand!”  
  
“No, because he didn’t _lie.”  
  
_ “Everyone lies,” Sphintus dismisses, rolling his eyes. It takes Sharrkan feel like a kid, which is irritating considering Sharrkan is five years younger. “It’s a fact of life.”  
  
 _But not to me_.  
  
Because that is what bothered Sharrkan really; not her manicured lawn or trembling hands. The fact that she’d kept something this big, this important, from him. Sharrkan told her everything; they were all family. That’s what family did.  
  
It makes him feel like he didn’t know her at all.  
  
“But it’s your decision whether or not to move past it,” Sphintus continues, oblivious to Sharrkan’s scowl smoothing over into a sigh. “And go with her anyway.”  
  
“Is it easy, living like you do?”  
  
Sphintus takes a moment to answer and Sharrkan regrets asking for the strain that pulls at his eyes while he thinks.  
  
“No,” he begins, carefully. “we can’t really go anywhere together, unless they’re juice joints. Even there, we have to pretend we’re just gin-jumping. Scheherazade is a kind dame, but Yamu’s parents might not be. The point is, you make it work if you want it to.”  
  
“And it’s worth it?”  
  
Sphintus’ grin is bright.  
  
“Every day.”

  


***  
  
Even after graduated, Ja’far still found herself frequenting her old college library, musing through the literature with a loud sigh. Growing up, Ja’far had never been told about her wit or her intelligence. What the gang had cared about was her skill with a blade, her proficiency at picking locks, her eyes that saw every detail of a room. Ja’far could tell you every exit in a building after entering it once; those were the things that mattered.  
  
But once she met Sinbad, the teenager had loved indulging Ja’far’s habits. “I’d do anything to see that smile,” Sinbad had teased, once, causing Ja’far to brush to the roots of her light hair. She bought her books with her meager salary as a showgirl; books she tucked under the younger girl’s pillow like money from the tooth fairy, a luxury Ja’far had never been afforded.  
  
She remembers ignoring them at first, purposefully placing them on the dinner table of their one-bedroom apartment and refusing to read them. She remembers Sinbad nodding but never moving them; letting the numbers stack against her until Ja’far caved and picked up the first one.  
  
By the end of the week, they were all finished and neatly stacked against Ja’far’s bedside.  
  
Since then, she frequently found herself rummaging back alley bookstores, even now that she was wealthy by proxy, finding battered copies of classics to add to her collection. Instead of a plain stack she had a bookcase, filled to the brim, ripped paperbacks and beautiful handcrafted covers that had come from Sinbad as holiday gifts. A beautifully embossed _Candide_ , mint condition, for her seventeenth birthday. _Great Expectations_ , the day Sindria opened its doors. _Hamlet_ , the day Sinbad bought their penthouse, overlooking the city. And dozens more, one for each occasion they shared.  
  
And yet, with such an extensive collection at home, she found herself browsing through the small library her lowly woman’s college had been afforded by its patron university. Sinbad had protested Ja’far going to such a _regular_ place (“that’s like serving steak at a gin mill!”) in favor of applying to Smith but in truth, Ja’far hadn’t wanted to leave home. So she’d conformed herself with the small literary major they had allowed her and graduated top of her class.  
  
“Morgiana?” The girl in question is currently holding a large stack of books, seemingly unaffected by the weight. She lifts her head at her name despite Ja’far’s distance, and smiles wanly.  
  
“Aladdin is reorganizing the psychology section and he needed some help.”  
  
Ja’far tuts, taking a few of the tomes away from her. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”  
  
“Masrur said I could skip today,” Morgiana says immediately, carefully avoiding Ja’far’s glance. “Mu is at work, Ruhroh went out, and Muron is still traveling and I didn’t want to be home alone.”

“Ah well,” Ja’far says, smiling down at her. “What’s one day?” She’d make sure to scold Masrur tonight anyway.

“Where’s Sinbad?”  
  
Ja’far’s smile tightens slightly; small enough that Morgiana chooses to let it pass. “She’s in a business meeting.” She decides not to say any more than that; Morgiana was quite unaware of her brother’s less-than-legal lifestyle and Masrur had long ago said he wanted to keep it that way. During the nights he worked, Masrur would leave Morgiana in hands of their other siblings to attend the security job at the university she thought he had ( _well_ , it was a security job).  
  
Before either could pick up the conversation again, a young boy crashes into Ja’far’s side, tucking his face into the groove of her waist.  
  
“Ja’far!”  
  
She smiles gently and presses a soft hand to Aladdin’s head; his hair feeling coarse under her fingertips. “Hey there,” she says, wrapping her arms around him. Aladdin was already fifteen and yet barely reached her shoulders, all gangly limbs and long, flowing hair. “How’s the new apartment?”  
  
“It’s the cat’s pajamas,” he says, the trendy words sounding slippery on his young tongue. “But Alibaba and I miss you two a lot!”  
  
Ja’far gently brings Aladdin back into a hug because really, she missed the two horribly as well. The day she and Sinbad had decided to take the two boys in, they’d been pounding on the front door of Sindria, demanding employment. Way too young to be working with alcohol, Sinbad said they had no choice but to take them in.  
  
Surprisingly, Ja’far had agreed and so, they’d created a makeshift family in the penthouse after only a week of knowing each other. They’d spent two years together until Alibaba decided he needed to move out when he discovered real estate clipping from the daily paper hidden in Sinbad's desk drawer.  
  
“No one are you guys moving out because of us,” Alibaba said, shaking his head. “You two are made for the wild life! Besides, I’m eighteen now, old enough to have my own place with Aladdin.”  
  
“The wild life,” Ja’far had deadpanned while Sinbad sighed, caught red-handed. The penthouse had grown cramped, made for a bachelor lifestyle, not a domesticated one.  
  
“You know what I mean. I’ll start looking for apartments in the morning.” And so, Alibaba had found one quickly and Sinbad had insisted on paying for the rent until Alibaba was out of school. Soon after he left, Aladdin joined him.  
  
“Make a round down to Sindria tonight, alright? The crew will be happy to see you.” Aladdin opens his mouth and Ja’far stares down at him, scant.  
  
“No, you’re not allowed at the bar,” she laughs against her better judgment and Aladdin looks pleased at the sound. She wonders if she’s been frowning more these days and finds herself unsurprised.  
  
A lot of things were harder these days.  
  
“I have to get going but I promise to come by,” he amends, squeezing her hand before disappearing back into the records room, dragging a stoic Morgiana on after him. She stares another them for a moment, a fond feeling stuck in her throat, before continuing through the stacks.  
  
  
***  
  
Ja’far ends up staying the rest of the night with a heap of books next to her, taking notes in the margin of her already filled notebook. Aladdin would stop by every few minutes, looking over her shoulder and grinning, teasing her for her obsession with reading about numbers more than fiction. However, numbers have a special way of soothing Ja’far, the logic a welcome release from her usually volatile life. She doesn’t need any more adventure.  
  
She exits with the librarian shooing her out, shouting about being cautious walking home in the middle of the night. Ja’far snorts but smiles kindly to her anyway, shifting her foot to feel the weight of her knife in her boot.  
  
As if something as simple as a homeless man would catch her off guard.  
  
Before she’d met Sinbad, Ja’far did what she could to survive. In Chicago, that meant either finding a gang that would take you or rotting away in a holding cell for stealing some petty cash. Being a member of an Outfit gave you power; at twelve years old, that’s all she’d ever wanted. However, it came at a cost. It meant sullying her hands in blood, staining the insides of her fingernails, no matter how long she stayed underwater. It brought long scars on her thighs, made with a scalpel and an unsteady hand, laced with opium and heady smoke.  
  
Sometimes it scares her that she thinks the costs were still worth it.  
  
Ja’far makes a sharp turn, sparing a glance behind her at the rustle of footsteps. One behind her, one coming from the left. She curses to herself and readjusts her purse. No one around to hear; two to one.  
  
She liked those odds.  
  
And she smiled when her first blade sunk into the man’s chest, fast enough that his face didn’t even register the shock until he was collapsed, choking for breath. Before the second could pull out the knife she saw inside the sewing of his pants, Ja’far lunged towards him, blade at the ready.  
  
“You picked the wrong lady to mug,” she says pleasantly, wrapping the wires she keeps hidden on her wrists like bracelets around his neck. “Killing him was a little rash but I got caught up in the moment. You know how it is.” Her hands tighten on the cable to the point where they dug into her skin; the sting of pain is a welcome fog in her angry haze. But instead of trembling in her grip like they had all her life, listless men and woman whose blood bubbled in her throat, he chuckles. He looks her straight in the eye and laughs and the blood boils, her eyes flashing a wild gray.  
  
She immediately blames Sinbad when she doesn’t hear the gun click behind her head; she’s made her soft.  
  
As a child, she never would’ve made that mistake.  
  
“You’ve gotten good at running.” She swallows thickly and lets go, the voice bringing a hard shudder down her spine. As the man beneath her sucks in deep gulps of relief, Ja’far keeps her voice level but her eyes elsewhere.  
  
“I haven’t been hiding.”  
  
“But you have been working,” the voice sounds so, _so_ calm that Ja’far is starting to lose her grip on the thin line her lips are keeping. “Did you think we’d forgotten about you?”  
  
She forces a laugh and glances up to see the man above her; his lips curled into a snarl. He’s aged since she last saw him; his hair, once an ashy blond, stark gray. His eyes are wrinkled but his grip on the gun is the same as it had been when she was young, steady and firm.  
  
Ja’far might be shaking but she doesn’t show it.  
  
“Oh never,” she says, taking a cautious step back. Her hands curl around both blades hidden under her dress. “I’m too memorable for that, pissant.”  
  
“Right you are bearcat,” he grins, unfazed by the insult. He’d always liked her mouth. “But Capone’s getting tired of your little game. And the Big Cheese isn’t exactly in the pleasing mood ever since your abnormality started wandering into our turf.”  
  
Sinbad’s nickname makes her wince, as usual. Abnormality by her enemies, miracle by the gang kids Sinbad has taken under her wing…like Ja’far. She swallows thickly and sighs, tilting her head to the side.  
  
“So what? You’re running out of decent shooters and you need me to back on the squad? You expect me to believe that?”  
  
“Oh no,” the cold barrel of his gun suddenly jams itself into the soft part of her jaw, letting out a burst of pain. She clenches her teeth and counts to three to rein in her anger, just like the man in front of her had taught her when she was barely a teenager. His grip is familiar and revolting. “But she’ll be easier to get to without you around, don’t you think? After all, I taught you everything you know.”  
  
“Fuck you and the Outfit,” she hisses, spitting in his face. The glob lands on his cheek and he stares, immobile. “Fuck Capone and your goddamn alcohol!”

He takes a handkerchief out of his trousers, ever the gentlemen, and wipes his cheek slowly. “Artistic differences,” he compromises and pulls the trigger.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow did i make you guys wait for this one! these past few months have brought on both a new lifestyle as i entered university and a severe drought of my writing ability. i spent a long time worrying this would be ooc considering how long it's been since sinbad or ja'far had appeared apart or together in the manga but here we are. hope you enjoy!
> 
> i listened to Rev 22:20 (Dry Martini Remix) while writing the final scene, if you want something to listen to while you read that part.

Perhaps it is pure luck instead of skill that drives Ja’far to the ground faster than the shot that nearly splits her skull open, sinking the bullet into her shoulder. Her howl is loud and nearly inhumane, a screech as she launches herself at Rob to wrap her slim hands around his neck. His smile is gone; instead replaced with a pale pallor that Ja’far is much too accustomed seeing pointed in her direction, which causes a deep-set shiver to pass through her bones. Her grip tightens. 

“You think you taught me shit,” she snarls, pressing their foreheads together and watching him, eyes flat like a viper, poised to strike a dagger straight into his spine. “I surpassed you years ago.”

And it is the pain that propels her forward as her dress becomes smudged with sticky blood, the adrenaline that gives her enough energy to slam his body against the pavement with a sickening crush. Two times her weight gives under the palm of her hand and it is like she is young again, high off the thrill of a successful night in a backroads alley, exchanging secrets for blood.

Her breath quickens with the nostalgia of it all, revels in it. Thinks of Sinbad. Thinks of home. 

“You’re gonna regret this, bitch,” he gasps and the heel of her shoes digs deeper into the curve of his back. His grunts are almost up themselves, meaty hands grasping for concrete. This has to be quick. “No one escapes Capone.”

“I did,” she growls and Rob could swear in that moment, she is girl turned devil’s spawn, white hair eerie against the rabid twist of her eyes. “Come near Sinbad and I’ll make sure the first thing I cut off is your tongue.”

Her blade is only stopped by the sharp bark of a man, flashlights creating a stretched shadow of herself against the concrete wall. Ja’far is immediately in motion; dropping her blade and his arm, allowing it to go limp against her belly. She screams and scrambles backwards, launching herself onto the ground again with a painful crack. 

“Help,” she cries, lifting her arms to cover her face in a flimsy attempt at protection. She doesn’t have to fake the pained expression on her face, the bullet wound in her shoulder creating enough of an effect. The police swarm the alley-way, two already picking off the two men she'd tossed from the floor, a taller figure kicking Rob to the ground when he tries to get up.

“Oh thank god,” she breaths, clutching the fringe of her dress. Not too dramatic, just enough for a defenseless rich woman. A little more pretending and she could go home, see Hinahoho to get her shoulder treated off the books. The last thing Ja’far needs is her name on a hospital bill, glaring evidence of the encounter. She grabs her shawl from the floor and pulls it over her shoulder, concealing a muffled groan at the movement. "I was horrified--”

“Cut the act,” a voice says, roughly grabbing her arm and pulling her up. Stars burst into her vision from the harsh twist from her shoulder but she bites down the sob. Looking up, the tuff of blurry red hair is enough to tell her how fucked she is. 

“Nice to meet you, Ja’far.”

And before he can wretch her arms behind her back with swinging handcuffs, she falters, landing in a heap onto the concrete. 

***

“I have a few questions.” Ja’far turns her head away, staring at the speckled ceiling of the dingy hospital she’s been escorted to. She could’ve afforded more than this even when she and Sinbad had been living off a meager show girl salary but Officer Ren had never been particularly generous. Although they’d never met, she’d spent enough of her time learning how to avoid him that she knows his type. Young, relatively successful, a prohibitionist. Arrogant and simple. She can hear him sigh loudly next to her and she switches her gaze to the IV in the soft part of her arm. She tries to lift it with no avail, her muscles flimsy with the cool haze of pain medication. She’s surprised they work on her anymore, but it could also be the handcuff chaining her to the cot that is preventing her range of motion. Kouen continues leafing through a rather large file, attached to a metal clipboard, where Ja’far is sure her name is scrawled enough times to forge an biography. 

“I told them to pump you twice,” Kouen says and Ja’far snorts, using her free hand to pick at the bandages wrapped around her shoulder. “Your file says—“

“Your file’s bullshit,” she interrupts, rolling her head lazily to look at him. “Do you have a reason to handcuff me?”

“You killed one of those thugs.” 

“That’s a heavy accusation,” she says, staring at her knife as it rests in his briefcase, wrapped in plastic. A nurse passes by and swats her hand away from her wound, adjusting the tape to apply more pressure to the blood-soaked bandages. She counts the number of times the nurse unwraps and rewraps gauze around the sewn up wound to keep busy.

“The evidence is obvious,” Kouen continues, undeterred. Ja’far finds herself remembering long nights spent drinking gin in her living room, Sinbad complaining about the few times she’d been face to face with the man herself. Usually it was Drakon who had the unpleasant task of keeping not only Kouen but all the Rens firmly in their place; away from the business and down the straight and narrow, whatever that may be. Considering his siblings fallible morality from the case files she’d had Drakon sneak away from his filing cabinets, she didn’t suppose they were angels themselves. Sinbad has once summed the Ren family in plain terms, the warmth of liquor making her feel more perceptive than usual. Insufferable, impervious to scrutiny, and delusional. She could deal with all three. “The bullet wound in your shoulder, the blood on your blade which we’ve confiscated—“

“So I’m being detained for defending myself against my attacker?”

“Please,” he scowls, clearly losing his patience. He drops his clipboard onto the table where Ja’far’s dinner should be and looms over her, foot tapping against the linoleum. “As if I don’t know they were from the Outfit? And that you were once their most profitable killer?”

“As you can see, Officer Ren,” she says, blinking owlishly. “I’m hardly a killer if I let a bullet injure me enough that I needed to be sent to the hospital.” 

“Let’s not play games,” he continues, jaw set so that his awful goatee twitches as his teeth clench. She’ll have to remind her boys never to grow anything like it. “I’m a reasonable man but I’m not an idiot.”

“Debatable,” she says mildly.

Kouen lets out a low sigh, more of an exhale than a hiss, and Ja’far idly watches as he regains composure. 

“Let’s get to the point, snake. You work for Sinbad.”

“I’m just a secretary,” she replies and it’s less of a lie than he seems to think. After all, Ja’far does not fight or kill nearly as much as the rumor mill likes to suggest in Kouen’s circles. If anything, she sends more time in dusty rooms counting numbers than sinking her blades in anyone at all. 

“An important one. I’m sure she’ll come beating down the door any minute asking for you to be relocated.” Ja’far has never thought Kouen a stupid man but he is a predictable one. 

“Or she’ll send our lawyer.” Kouen hums and the noise makes Ja’far grate her teeth together. 

“Ah, you’re right. She’s likely too busy, working and drinking. Or maybe she’s on her back for Judar at this very momen—“

He is interrupted by the slam of Ja’far’s hands against the bars of her bed, palms turned white from the strain. Her eyes flash and dilate, aching to reach over and snap his neck in two, lids heavy from the pain that explodes in her shoulder as she moves forward. Kouen keeps his face composed but his eyes betray the cool feeling of amusement deep in his chest. 

“Ah, did I hit a nerve?”

“I don’t know how your wife can stand you,” she hisses, fingers clenched around the bars, replacing them with his throat. “Or do you still call her cousin? I’m sure either is fine.”

Kouen’s face shuts down, lips drawn into a tight line. 

“I’ll make sure you rot in a cell one day,” he says, gathering up his things with barely concealed annoyance. Ja’far works on keeping herself calm; knowing her slip was ill-advised. She would’ve chastised Sinbad for making that kind of comment, even in private.

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” a voice chimes in from the doorway, smooth and absolutely unwelcome. Drakon hunches behind Sinbad in a way that would be imposing if her presence didn’t overflow the room and any advantage of height Drakon had. She looks angry but Ja’far can tell she is more relieved than dangerous, the rise and fall of Sinbad’s chest visible to her observant eyes. Kouen looks less than excited at her arrival, knowing his time to interrogate has come to an end. 

“Sinbad.”

“Officer Ren,” she grins, baring her teeth. “I heard you’re unlawfully detaining one of my employees. You know you’re supposed to take your concerns with anyone in my company to my lawyer.”

“I’m afraid your secretary is part of an open investigation.”

“And yet she’s handcuffed,” Drakon says, slipping past Sinbad to extend his hand. “The key, if you please.” 

Ja’far watches, eyes flat and face composed, as Kouen reaches into his pocket and pulls out the slender key. Drakon doesn’t uncuff her right away, instead studying the wound on her shoulder. Sinbad is much less patient. 

“I want her out of here in an hour. I’m sure that won’t be a problem?” Really, Ja’far thinks it’s a miracle Kouen isn’t cowed by the sheer pleasantness of Sinbad’s voice. Instead he holds his own, looking through his notes like he has all the time in the world. 

“Officer Koumei will likely have some questions for her in the future.”

“Considering she’s nothing more than a victim, I can’t imagine how she’d be any help. Right, Ja’far?”

“I can’t even remember their faces,” she says on cue, her eyes closing briefly as Drakon carefully moves her wrist out of the cuff, the vibration causing her shoulder to ache. “It was terrifying.” 

Kouen knows he’s being played. He’d have to be daft to not notice the smug look on Sinbad’s face, even as she smiles amicably and extends her hand towards him. He takes her invitation with more firmness than he’d planned and she returns the force with a lingering squeeze. He wonders briefly if he’s ever been more annoyed by a group of people who seem to know exactly that they’re doing it. His family has always been a volatile one and yet he’s never felt this mind-numbing irritation all directed towards a single person. 

“Of course,” he says, stuffing his clipboard into the lining of his open briefcase. He doesn’t spare Ja’far a glance, lest the look on her face prompt his blood to boil with its impassivity. “I anticipate I’ll be seeing you again soon.”

“On better terms,” Sinbad agrees, motioning for Drakon to call for a nurse. “I’ll be having a benefit next weekend; I’m sure Kougyoku would want you all to join her.”

“I’m sure.” As if he needed the reminder that his little sister was acting like nothing more than a common moll. He takes his handcuffs as the nurse rushes in along with discharge papers and Sinbad attention is immediately turned to Ja’far once he leaves. 

“We’ll take you to Cook County—.“ Ja’far raises her hand and Sinbad immediately falls silent, heels digging into the floor. 

“Just call Hinahoho and take me home.” 

***

“Want a smoke?” 

Ja’far doesn’t turn Sinbad’s way but finds herself nodding, hand reaching out for a cigarette that drops into her palm like a feather. She’d spent most of the day with a towel in her mouth as Hinahoho stitched her wound shut; the fabric only ceremonial because Ja’far hadn’t even let out a whimper as he cleaned the tacky blood from her shoulder. Sinbad had spent most of the day by her side, both worried and questioning, insisting on hearing about the encounter twice over until Ja’far snapped at her to stop hovering. After that, Hinahoho had gently kicked the older woman out of the room and she’d spent the rest of the evening with their friends in the living room, the absence of Yamuraiha and Sharrkan leaving a bad taste on Sinbad’s tongue. Since when had her people been so separated: two brooding in their own houses, one nearly unconscious on Sinbad’s office table because Ja’far had insisted against getting the bed sheets dirty, the rest anxiously picking at their fingernails or in Pisti’s case, drinking some hooch. 

“I need a Wonderlite,” Ja’far says with the filter between her teeth. Sinbad rustles in her pocket and lights it quietly, allowing Ja’far to continue avoiding her gaze. And this is what causes her to cave, the quiet knowledge that Sinbad has always given her space when she needed it, and their years together haven’t made that change. 

“How long have they been following you?” 

“Maybe a month? It was sloppy sending Rob after me but maybe they thought I’d still have some kind of—I don’t now, familial affection.”

Sinbad scowls, tapping her fingers on the metal railing. “As if that bastard is family, after what he did to you.”

“I don’t want to pull you into my problems,” Ja’far says quietly, inhaling and holding the smoke for as long as she can, a quiet punishment against her lungs. “We have enough of those already.”

Sinbad lets out a small noise of concession before lighting a cigarette for herself. “So I’m allowed to drag you through my mud but you can’t ask for my help with your own demons? Seems unfair.” She leans back against the railing, arching so half of her body is almost in midair, teetering close to the edge. Ja’far doesn’t stop her and focuses on her throbbing shoulder, cursing when her cigarette burns out. Sinbad glances over and plucks the roll-up from her own mouth, dropping it into Ja’far’s open lips with gentle hands and hooded eyes. Her gaze flickers to Sinbad’s open robe and Ja’far inhales through her nose, exhales heady smoke. 

“It’s not you I’m worried about,” she mumbles, fingers itching to pull Sinbad away from the open air but refraining. “Spartos, Yamu, Pisti, all of them. God forbid, Aladdin. Everyone is in danger the longer this goes on.”

“My sanity is in danger if you keep talking like you plan on leaving.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Ja’far needles, moving away from the balcony in favor of leaning against the sliding door. She turns to look at Sinbad and is startled by the look of sheer determination in her eyes, just as bright as it had been when they were homeless children, clinging to each other for warmth in the cold sting of autumn air. 

“I’m being honest.” And it is the words that remind Ja’far why she’s dedicated her life to this storm of a woman, whose open arms have always touched her deepest wounds.  
“We do things together,” Sinbad continues, aware of Ja’far’s eyes on her and stretching further anyway. “We make decisions together.”

“You mean you make decisions that I sometimes agree with.”

“I don’t think you’d ever do something you didn’t want to do, love.”

 _That’s because I’d do anything for you_. The thought should be scary but Ja’far finds she has reached a point where her devotion is much too unconditional to even bother being distressed. It is a part of her the way the scars on her legs have never fully healed or the way the memory of metal on her thighs has been replaced with the warm kiss of a lover.

“What’s your idea?”

Sinbad shrugs, walking towards her until she can smell the shaky scent of smoke and soap that she has learned so well. “I think Capone should realize I am not a force to be trifled with. Me or my people.”

“I think he knows and is choosing not to care. You’re in his territory; if he heeds, he looks weak.”

“If he doesn’t, he’ll look weak under my foot,” Sinbad plucks the cigarette from Ja’far’s mouth and replaces it with her thumb. “Or under your blade.”

Ja’far can feel where this is heading, the tinge of Sinbad’s skin against her face a stronger sedative than anything the nurses had given her for the pain. She doesn’t fight it this time; parting her lips to let Sinbad’s thumb slip into her mouth, tucked between her teeth. The older woman exhales, managing to look unsurprised while still pleased, and lets Ja’far create their pace. She takes her time testing out the rough feel of her tongue on Sinbad’s skin. 

“You don’t know how beautiful you look right now.”

Ja’far snorts, unable to help herself, fingers reaching to undo her overcoat. “You don’t have to sweet-talk me; I’m already undressing.”

“Regardless,” Sinbad says, somehow smiling while still looking ready to eat her whole, hand tucked under her chin. “I could wax poetry about the look you get when I touch you.”

 _Christ_. That shouldn’t make her knees wobble the way they do; she’s heard Sinbad say much more ludicrous things to the women and men she brings to bed. And yet, her fingers work at the buttons faster and she doesn’t pick up the coat when it falls to the floor, kicking it aside in favor of grabbing the thin silk of Sinbad’s robe and pulling her close. Her shoulder aches and she welcome the pain as it mingles with the cool feeling of the night air and Sinbad’s breath on her skin.

“Stop worrying,” she whispers, lips skimming the smooth skin of Ja’far’s neck. “We’ll deal with it in the morning.”

“Putting off work as usual,” she laughs, a breathy noise as Sinbad’s teeth find a sensitive spot on her collarbone. Even as she sets their rhythm she finds herself being completely overwhelmed by Sinbad’s warmth, the feel of her hands on the base of Ja’far’s back. She has always been too much for the younger girl, enough that Ja’far can hardly keep up with Sinbad on her best days. 

Sinbad leads her to her bedroom without asking, knowing Ja’far prefers the privacy of their apartment to her own tendencies, which would’ve included pressing her against the sliding glass door until Ja’far melted in her hands, a puddle of tremors and moans. Instead she sets Ja’far down into the mattress, spreads her legs, undoing her dress and kissing her way down the valley of her breasts. Her fingers trace every scar: the ridges that cross around her ribs, the smooth marks on her shoulders, the jagged line of her thighs, pressing a touch then a kiss to each one. Ja’far arches at each brush of Sinbad’s hand, past pretending she doesn’t want it just as much as Sinbad insists. 

“You gave me quite a scare today,” Sinbad mumbles against the skin of her thigh, teeth catching on the lace of her stockings. Ja’far laughs and digs her fingers into the mattress, ignores the slight catch of desperation stuck to the edge of Sinbad’s voice. Instead she focuses on the sound of her underwear sliding down her curved thighs, the feel of too much heat and not enough breath trapped in her chest, and the hitched words that neither of them said but lingered between them like a tethered thread. 

“As if something as simple as a bullet could take me down.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not many things to unpack here but:
> 
> moll - a gangster's girl  
> wonderlite - the kind of light they would've been using in the 20s for smoking  
> cook county - the best hospital in chicago at the time


End file.
